


The Last Frontier

by RileyDJones



Category: The Last of Us
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 21:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17712278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyDJones/pseuds/RileyDJones
Summary: Years after the initial outbreak of the Cordyceps Brain Infection in North America, Anchorage, Alaska remains as one of the last quarantine zones left in the United States. The paratroopers of the 2nd Battalion, 509th Parachute Infantry Regiment struggle against a rising faction of Fireflies in the last American frontier.





	The Last Frontier

**Author's Note:**

> Views characters express in this work does not reflect the personal views of the author.

**Winter of 2016**  
**Quarantine Zone Anchorage/Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson, Alaska**  
**Sector 22A of the Shield**

It was initially called the Security Wall when it was built in 2014 and its officially stated purpose was to defend the quarantine zone from the cordyceps brain infection. Back then, the governor of Alaska, the mayor of Anchorage, and the commander of United States Army Alaska were worried about the public image of keeping Americans out of the quarantine zone. But after many incidents with infected individuals trying to make it past the wall, the gates were closed and security was increased. The Security Wall was now unofficially renamed the “Shield” by those who guard the wall from the undesirables (those unfortunate enough to be caught outside the walls when the QZ was closed). Paratroopers of the 4th Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division saw this as a waste of their time. Why do this when they could be put to better use scavenging for supplies in the abandoned cities close to Anchorage or even conducting search and destroy missions outside the walls? Conscripts, those that were forcibly enlisted by lottery and fell under FEDRA, were better suited for guard duty. Or, at least in the opinions of the soldiers who enlisted before the outbreak. Soldiers were far better trained and more disciplined than their FEDRA counterparts. It was obvious why the soldiers refused to wear the unit patches issued to them by FEDRA, preferring to wear the patches from their units before the world turned to Hell.

  
“This is bullshit,” said Private First Class Charles Donaldson. He spat out a mouth full of dip spit off the four meter high wall protecting the Zone.

“Conscripts should be used for this shit. Not fuckin' fully trained soldiers.”

  
Specialist David Knox agreed but kept his mouth shut. It was a conversation the two had numerous times during their watch of the Shield. A conversation that had repeated itself too many times for Knox to care. Next, Donaldson will complain about the conscripts always screwing things up for the military and how the military was always called to clean up the mess. After that, he would toss his dip over the wall and pack another pinch into his lip. Likely the homemade stuff that Sergeant Keaton sold.

  
“Maybe then we wouldn't have to clean up their fuckin' mess every time they accidentally hurt someone or leave a breach in the wall,” said Donaldson as he dug his pinch out of his lip. He casually flicked it over the wall, pulled out an old Copenhagen tin packed with homemade dip, and put another pinch in his lip. Out of curiosity, Knox took a peek over the wall and was not surprised to see a mountain of frozen dip in the same spot. If there was one thing Knox could compliment Donaldson on, it was his precision.

  
“You know, we've had this same conversation millions of times, right?” spoke Knox.

  
“Yeah, and you've said that to me millions of times too. It kills time.”

  
It was the dead of winter and sightings of infected were quite rare. In the beginning, back in 2013 when the infection broke out in a pandemic, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of people from the U.S and Canada tried to make the trek to Anchorage's quarantine zone. The promise of protection from the nearby joint base made it a handsome location for anyone seeking refuge. That, and the brutality of the winter made Alaska a desirable location. The infection was proven to be milder in extreme climates from the heat to the cold. Back then, the United States Army had a difficult time securing and filtering the quarantine zone. Americans were outraged they were not permitted to enter a quarantine zone on American soil. Hell, there was almost a full blown riot when the gate was closed. However, it was quickly put to rest when the civilians faced a full force of American paratroopers armed to the teeth with weaponry far exceeding any civilian firearms in terms of numbers of weapons and ammunition. The paratroopers certainly had reservations on shooting their own countrymen, but when it came to the safety of their families within the quarantine zone and their fellow brothers and sisters, they would end anyone's life within a heartbeat.

  
Now, as the infection had taken its toll on the human population, the refugees had died down in number. It was hunters and militia groups they worried about in the winter. And when the thaw of summer came, so did the infection. But in these cold months, the paratroopers watching the wall kept their eyes and ears open for the Alaskan militias and raiders. One would be stupid to take on the force of the American military when there was an entire base situated inside the Zone itself. But desperation made people stupid. And stupid people made for dangerous foes.

  
“Hey, Donaldson, see that figure squatting by that bush?” asked Knox.

  
“What bush? There's, like, a million fuckin' bushes out here.”

  
“The one by that bigass tree that looks like a 'Y'. He's wearing some kind of overwhites so it's kinda hard to see him. But the dumbass is wearing a black beanie.”

  
Donaldson aimed his rifle downrange and looked through the ACOG sight on his M4. It took him a few seconds to spot the figure, and when he did, the figure retreated into the snow covered woods. The two continued to observe the area for a few more minutes. Knox could have sworn that figure was watching them with binoculars. Even if it wasn't, Knox did not like the look of it. He set up his M249 SAW upon one of the sandbags on the wall and aimed down his M145 sight where the figure was last seen.

  
“Hey, Donaldson, go tell Mendez what just happened. I'll stay here.”

  
“On it.”

  
Donaldson ran down the wall's walkway leaving Knox to keep watch. People were still surviving out there three years after the outbreak. The U.S government was still holding on as best as they could. Those FEDRA jackasses were evidence of that. They somehow still had contact with their leadership that's probably hiding in a secure bunker in Colorado. And HAM radio enthusiasts were picking up signals from the Russians, Japanese, and Koreans. People were surviving across the pond. But the enemies and friends of yesterday are not of any concern. It was the men and women in your own neighborhood you would have to watch. The winter saw very few, if anyone, trying to make the trek to Zone A/JBER. But this little bastard that disappeared was scoping them out. It could be harmless, but Knox did not like to leave anything to chance.

  
Corporal Mendez and Donaldson came jogging over to Knox, each of them staring out to where Knox was pointing his M249 SAW. The world was empty, covered in snow, silent save for the chilling wind that bit into their cheeks. There was no movement but the occasional moose that came lumbering by. Mendez looked down his ACOG and observed the area a bit longer. His eyes searched for tracks in the snow, but the heavy snowfall covered up any evidence in minutes.

  
“Could be a looky-loo, could be a jackass observing us. I'll pass it up to sarn't Jackson and we'll see what happens. But I don't like it either.”

  
Mendez nodded his head to the end of their section of the wall where their relief was waiting to switch with them.

  
“Shift's over. Let's head back.”

  
This winter was going to be the most brutal one in years, and the desperation was about to set in.

**Fort Richardson**  
**The Hootenanny**

It was once the Wilderness Inn Dining Facility. Now it was turned into a bar of sorts for the soldiers on base. Located conveniently across from the 2-509th barracks, it was a common point of gathering for all soldiers permanently stationed in JBER. On any given night there were a dozen passed out bodies on the hill between the dining facility and the barracks. Today, for the soldiers of Easy Company, 2-509th Parachute Infantry Regiment, one of their own finally turned twenty-one. Private Wallace Carter from first platoon was one of the last true paratroopers to join the unit back in 2013. When the outbreak happened, he was on his first jump with the regiment breaking his regimental cherry. He still remembers the feel of the cherry pie that was shoved in his pants before the jump, the confectionery sticking to his leg, and the taste of it after he made it to the staging point. Soldiers can still be assigned to the 4th Brigade Combat Team (Airborne), 25th Infantry Division after graduation from the military youth academy in Anchorage, but they will never be called paratroopers. Though they may come close to their brothers and sisters who have earned their wings and did their jumps, however, there will always be that divide. For many paratroopers of Easy Company, Wallace Carter represented the downfall of their kind, soldiers who enlisted before the outbreak, a dying breed of men who carried a drowning legacy of legends.

“And now they say they want to include conscripts in our battalion. You fuckin' kidding me?” roared a drunken sergeant. “I'd rather take a fuckin' POG ass mechanic than a conscript. I'd rather take a fuckin' _female_ than a conscript!”

The masses of drunken paratroopers cheered in agreement and slammed more beers down their gullets. Sergeant Anderson, Carter's squad leader, stood up on a table and raised his glass. The room filled with soldiers from all over 4-25 hushed their voices and held in their vomiting stomachs.

“Today is a very sad day, my friends. Today marks the end of a lineage of great warriors. Today, the last paratrooper in all of Alaska, Hell, maybe the last paratrooper in the _world_ becomes a man. We celebrate the coming of age of the last paratrooper to graduate from airborne school and induce him into the ranks of an elite and dying brotherhood. A brotherhood that will remain in the legacy of the greatest fucking fighting force to ever exist in the history of humanity. Bring me the cherry!”

Paratroopers grabbed Carter forcefully and held him down on a table while others begin to duct tape his arms and legs. He struggled like a captured hog, fought back as hard as he could, but the strength of a squad's worth of men were far too much for him to handle. The men tore his shirt off his body as his squad leader heated a branding iron with the symbol of 509th, the “G-Man”. Back in the days of proper civilization, when men killed men for politics instead of survival, such acts of initiation were prohibited. If this was 2013, before the infection, all participants would have been tried by the fullest extend of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. But in these times of brutality and survival, where a single mistake can endanger the lives of hundreds of thousands of people living in the Zone, the times reflected a growing culture of savageness in both the civilian and military social worlds. To receive this brand was something coveted, something that was wanted to be earned, something that inducted one into a closed society. And Carter was going to be the last.

  
Sergeant Anderson jumped down from the table and lit a cigarette from the hot brand. Carter's eyes grew wide as soon as he spotted the metal instrument, but he was resigned to his fate. This was a day both dreaded and eagerly anticipated since he first spotted the branding practice when the base was turned into a quarantine zone. He was ready. Anderson smiled sadistically at Carter.

  
“Try not to move too much. Don't want the brand to look shitty, now do you?”

  
Anderson plunged the hot brand into the private's shoulder where the unit patch would be on a uniform and held it there for three agonizing seconds. Carter closed his eyes and bit down on a rag that was shoved into his mouth. He screamed, hollered, cried, and tried his best to stop from violently moving about in his restraints. His squadmates held him strongly, and once the brand was lifted from his skin, they stood him up and cut the tape from his body. His team leader poured a stream of moonshine from his mason jar onto Carter's wound and handed the man the jar to drink the rest. The entire bar erupted into a single cheer of “Geronimo!” as Carter finished his drink and slammed the empty glass onto a table.

  
Doc White, the platoon's medic, came by and treated the burn with what supplies he had. It was one of the more successful brandings he had seen and was impressed by how clean the brand came out. It goes to show that everyone involved did their best to finish off the tradition the best they could. One by one the paratroopers came by and shook Carter's hand, then followed up with a slap upon his wound. Carter clenched his teeth and took his punishment. They no longer looked at him like he was a cherry right out of airborne school. Now he was one of the boys.

  
“How do you feel?” asked Knox. Seeing Carter like this brought back memories of his own branding in 2014. He shook Carter's hand and gave him a slap upon his branding. After Carter held his breath to control the pain, he sighed and looked to the long line of paratroopers still waiting to get their licks in.

“Well, it sucks. But it's awesome. I've been wanting for one of these for so long but Jesus Christ it fucking hurts.”

  
Knox smiled and patted Carter's other shoulder.

  
“Welcome to the brotherhood.”

**The Next Day**  
**Fort Richardson**  
**En Route to Muldoon Gate**

“Someone tell me why we're the ones going into this riot? Why can't the National Guard, shit, why can't the MPs take care of this shit?” complained PFC Donaldson.

  
The LMTV the paratroopers of 1st Squad, 1st Platoon rode in was a rickety piece of shit that should have been retired during the Persian Gulf War. Every bump in the road was amplified by at least a hundred times and it felt like it was ready to tip over after each turn. Even the arctic heater in the back did not work. But the damn thing had not worked since any of the paratroopers had been in the army. The freezing temperatures forced the troopers to huddle close together. Even their poof tops and bottoms did little to help their situation. Even worse, the soldiers were expected to take off their marshmallow suits when they dismounted. It was going to be a cold mission.

  
“We're out here because the governor believes she has authority over JBER. She probably thinks the base belongs to the public. Hell, even she isn't allowed on base anymore. If she wasn't so pissed at us, she'd have the police take care of this,” reasoned PFC Harlan.

  
“We're out here for a show of force. When people see this patch on our shoulders, they know what's up. Now shut up and get your heads straight,” barked CPL Mendez.

  
It was a very delicate situation the paratroopers of Easy Company found themselves in. Every soldier among them deployed to Afghanistan in 2012. Manning security checkpoints and traffic control points was muscle memory. But being stateside made things complicated. It was easier when you were facing civilians and militias that were not your own countrymen. But American soldiers fighting against American citizens was something completely different. It felt a bit awkward, perhaps something out of a dystopian novel. Things like civil liberties did not mean much when the only thing standing between a man and death is a four meter high wall guarded by disgruntled soldiers.

  
“You know, there's that quote from Ben Franklin about trading freedom for security,” joked PFC Clarke from Bravo Team.

  
“Yeah, but Ben Franklin didn't have to worry about John Adams eating his fuckin' face off,” replied SPC Harris, Bravo Team's automatic rifleman.

  
The LMTV stopped in the parking lot of a repurposed gas station where the rest of the platoon waited. Even between the distance from the gas station to the gate, the sounds of discontent was flooding the air with a ravenous anger. The MPs had their hands full with whatever the Hell was going on over there. The base was on verge of having a full scale revolt.


End file.
